


To Plant a Garden is to Believe in Tomorrow

by daisybrien



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (i guess), Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gardens & Gardening, Happy Ending, Humor, Post-Canon, Post-Sburb, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6921106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Calliope and Roxy help tend to the planet's new gardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Plant a Garden is to Believe in Tomorrow

The sun is shining every day in this new home of a planet. It’s a brilliant light against a blue canvas, or a dim glow behind the gray of rainclouds, which grants the earth the fruits it bears so graciously, occasional rain nourishing the soil underfoot, seedlings growing to sprouts growing into lively stalks as they reach up towards the rays of the sun. Wildlife creeps within the planet’s twitching leaves, bugs crawling lazily through moss and moist dirt, buzzing through the air along with birdsong and pattering along with herds of animals galloping past, their chatter a constant thrum of nature’s soundtrack. The landscape is a mosaic of green and blue and brown, the air and water cool and impossibly clean, the foliage lush and healthy against the few shimmering cities of silver glittering on distant horizons.

The entirety of it lives and breathes like one being. It expresses it from its core, complex and complete as is sprawls over every inch of its dips and curves, and Calliope wonders how something that could have been nothing more than a hunk of rock had the potential to exist under her very own two feet.

It’s hard to see any of it as anything short of a miracle. Every single inch has left her in awe, even after the months of exploring and laying past worries to rest. Despite its growing familiarity, she is the only one who can’t comprehend taking anything for granted. After knowing nothing but grey dust that sunk dry into the creases of her skin, tinted a burning red under the blistering, overbearing heat of a dying sun, everything is still too new. The chill of rainwater still bites her to the bone when it patters against her skin, the sun still blinding and burning her fragile skin, the scent of pollen and sweet rot in the depths of overgrown forest chokingly overbearing. She has never been surrounded by so much green.

It’s the first time she has ever known how beautiful the colour really is.

Nature doesn’t give her a second glance; she blends into it as simply as it accepts her. Her bleeding body isn’t a foreign, lonely thing anymore, no wasteland to isolate her. She is just another working element in its intricate network, giving and taking.

She relishes in every grain of it, the way beams of sunlight peek through the gaps in her straw sunhat, made from dry grass that had prickled under her bare feet like timid, apologetic needles. Her hands dig through sand and soil that buries itself stubbornly under her long nails. She follows herds of hoofbeasts at a revered distance, still teaching herself to purse her thin lips around her teeth in order to respond to the call of birds as she sits in the bushes, simply watching. She will get the hang of it, eventually. For once, she has time to spare. She can involve herself wholeheartedly.

She’s helping Roxy tend to the gardens.

She sinks her hands into soft, warm mulch, its slow give to her touch never failing to be cathartic. It shifts and moves beneath her fingers, each clump of clay writhing as though it owns its own tiny little heartbeat – or maybe it’s only moving because she just unearthed a worm, but what a magnificent worm it must be, pink and squirming and as alive as the rest of everything! – the dull thrum of the earth’s energy tickling her skin. She digs herself one more hole into the neat little line in front of her, patting another sprout snug into the ground to take root.

Looking down the row, she nods in satisfaction at her work, her palms staining the knees of her cargo pants as she wipes the dirt from them. Dozens more stretch out to the distant borders of their plots of land, already overgrown and ripe for harvest. She can’t help but beam at the mosaic of vines and leafy patches, having grown from nothing more than a few foot square plot of earth to the sprawling success it is now, and still crawling slowly upwards towards the sun’s beckoning. 

“It’s always been much more than just making sure I had food,” Jade had told her, the words tinkling with laughter in her head; she mimics the motion of her burly, sweeping arms as she remembers them, curving delicately with the tip and pour of her watering can. “There’s something very calming about digging through the soil, watering each plant one by one; knowing that they’re thriving from your own nurturing and hard work, it gives an earned sense of pride.”

Calliope smiles despite the ache of her hands, stinging with splinters from weedy thorns and wooden pikes for the beanstalks. A trickle of lime green curves along the lines of her knuckles, smudged and pooling at the corner of her thumbnail. Jade’s few bouts of cheery astuteness stuck – even after bearing witness to the rambling old man’s tales of Dad Egbert, his wisdom was never as heavy as that she has received from those younger – a reminder to keep on even as she analyzes the minute carnage of her hands and her clothes stick to her stinging, sunburnt body with tacky sweat from hours hunched and toiling in the dirt.

She doesn’t often need it; the sun is always kinder to her in the evening, dimly warm against flaming skin as it dips over the horizon in a sea of pink and gold. It shines against the leaves as they rustle with pesky chickadees and mutant kittens scurrying around in their shady napping spots, lines of light peeking through the gaps of it in bright white blocks of coloured glare. She inhales the sweet scent of wet dew as she stretches her aching muscles, weary yet elated as she looks over her day’s work. Her touch had brought life and beauty, and the gratification it brought was even enough to reassure her of her own.

There’s a rustle in the bushes behind her, slow and soft, almost disappearing against the wind that whistles by. Just loud enough to hear, she can tell it is bigger than the creatures that find refuge here during the day. When she tries to turn around to find the culprit, a voice stops her.

“Don’t turn around yet!” it exclaims, laughter dripping from its giddy tone. “Your surprise garden visitor has one hella gift for you.”

“A surprise?” Callie questions, smiling as she keeps her eyes down, watching an ant skitter just on the surface of the soil. There is no mistaking the squealing enthusiasm of that saccharine, drawling voice, but she plays along anyway. “I wonder what generous person would want to give me something so special out of the blue.”

“You’ll see,” followed by laughter; the only response she gets in return. Soft footfalls squelch over the freshly watered soil behind her, growing closer with each step. Pale, warm hands wind around Calliope’s head, gentle as they cover her green eyes, plunging early evening into black midnight. Breathy giggles brush against the side of her skull.

“As amusing as it is, I think you’ve unfortunately overused your tricky game of ‘guess who,’ Roxy,” Calliope grins. “In fact, I’d be quite indignant if you really thought I would ever guess differently from your beautiful self.”

“I would never,” Roxy says, drawing out the last word on a groan. “My silly games can’t ever stand a chance against your outstanding thinker.”

“Neither will flattery.”

“Still,” Roxy muses; she either doesn’t pick up on her gentle sarcasm, or she ignores it. Her actions seem scripted, rehearsed. Callie tries to respond in kind, upset at the thought of letting such practice go to waste. “I don’t think you’ll be able to guess what this is.”

The fingers over her eyes slip away slightly, the gaps between them opening up slits for light to flood into her eyes. Only one hand covers them now, the other sliding lower over her face, brushing against the contour of a skeletal cheek and coming to rest on her paper thin lips. Something round and smooth presses against the front of her teeth, Roxy’s fingertips kindly insistent on pushing it through.

“You don’t trust me love?” Roxy teases. “I’m not going to poison you.”

Calliope relents, opening her mouth. The tiny thing she was holding drops into her mouth, and it rolls across her teeth with the swirl of her tongue like a bumpy, sweet marble. When she’s familiar with the odd oval texture, she sticks it expertly between the points of her canines, crushing it.

She coughs a little, unprepared for the sudden sour spurt it releases. She jolts forward, cupping one hand over her mouth as she turns to Roxy; she’s as vibrant as ever, a halo of pink, fluffy hair shining in the gold light illuminating the roundness of her cheeks as she smiles wide. She stares at Calliope expectantly, squealing with delight and leaping forward to embrace her bony shoulders when she responds with nothing more than a fervent nod and trilling laughter.

“See,” Roxy exclaims, laughing with her. They rest their heads together, crinkling their noses with their giddiness and admiration. “The blackberries are good, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Callie agrees. 

She squeaks slightly as Roxy moves her hand away, her thumb brushing a smudge of haphazard purple off her chin.

“You, uh,” Roxy stutters, hand jumping away with rough, sudden jolts. “Had a lil’ som’n somethin’ there.”

“Why thank you,” Calliope says, attempt at boldness falling apart from the flustered voice. “But, I think there may be more still there?”

“I don’t see anythi-“ her words are cut off as Calliope leans forward, bumping lips together in a chaste kiss. When she leans back, Roxy’s white skin is shining bright red with what she hopes is a blush and not another nasty sunburn.

“Well, aren’t you being a super extra mushy thing today!”

“I can’t help but be pleased with the result,” Calliope muses, grinning at Roxy as she brings a hand to the back of her neck, one finger moving forward to twist flirtatiously at a bubblegum corkscrew curl.

“I’m not,” Roxy retorts, quickly taking advantage of Calliope’s surprise, leaning in again. “I missed a spot.”

The kiss is longer this time, the two of them just cherishing the intimacy of it rather than the act itself. These kisses are always pleasantly awkward, lips against teeth, heads tilted at awkward angles. They make up for it, winding arms around waists and pulling each other closer, rubbing soil and grass stains into their clothes and they intertwine in the shelter of the garden. 

They pull away, subdued and breathless, faces close enough for eyelashes to fan against each other. They share a soft laugh.

Reluctantly, Calliope breaks the silence. “And what else did we receive today?”

“Yes!” Roxy states matter-of-factly, sitting upright. “The veggie haul of the day, courtesy of our fantabulous gardening superior.” She turns around, crawling back on her knees towards the basket she left sitting by the end of the newly planted row.

She drags it over, kicking up chunks of dirt in its wake and lifting it over her head, plopping it between their laps. Leafy greens stick out of the blanket covering the opening of the wicker rim, connected to carrots and other goods buried under packets of seed, all revealed when Roxy opens it with a theatrical swirl.

“Tada!!” she sings, clapping her hands sweetly, flashing her teeth in a show woman’s smile. One hand sweeps over it, the gesture glorifying its colourful arrangement. 

“Oh, how wonderful,” Calliope says, both of their hands already reaching in, eyes scanning the hand-drawn pictures on each thin pouch and neon green ink; some of them are still unfamiliar to her, rousing the curiosity in her learning heart for the gift of tending to life. “She even provided care tips, what a darling! She really outdid herself this time, I have absolutely no idea how we could thank her.”

“We better start gardening then,” Roxy says, picking up each packet one by one. “Show our good ol’ Jadey how much we appreciate her hard work. I swear this sweetheart can never let us down-“

Her speech tapers off with abrupt sputters of disbelief, squinting down at the packet in her hands with distrustful eyes. She crinkles her nose as she continues to scrutinize it; she flips it over to read the instructions on the back, Calliope catching a glimpse of a plump thing hanging from fluorescent emerald vines, lined in a shockingly garish orange. 

She has no time to ask what it is, let alone about Roxy’s apparent distaste for it before she tosses it over her shoulder, refusing to look back as she listens it plop into the bushes away from them with a defeated, furious smile stretched across her face.

“Roxy!” she exclaims, stuttering through her confusion at the scene before her. “What on earth are you doing?”

She gets no sort of easy explanation; she gets no response but Roxy’s back as the woman launches up from her seat with spry, pent up energy, limbs flailing out erratically as she sprints to the nearest edge of the garden with heavy footfalls. Calliope only sits in stunned silence, too shocked to do anything more that find the decency to cover her gaping mouth as she watches Roxy tense all muscle, her ear splitting shriek shattering the peace of nature beyond. A wind follows it, birds fleeing from nearby trees in testament to the sheer force of her apparent fury.

The minor terror is short lived. Roxy turns on her heel, curls bouncing and whirling like a pink and writhing stormcloud around the fiery lightning flashing in her angry eyes. She leaves wreckage in her wake, kicking up clods of dirt – at least they won’t have to turn the soil in that plot, if they ever get to plant those somehow offensive seeds anytime soon – frustration snapping from whipping arms and legs, building as she reaches into the bushes. She snatches up the packet, crumpling it in her fist. 

When she stomps her way back, Calliope is almost fearful. “Roxy, darling,” she begins, “what is-?”

“Pumpkins!” Roxy bellows, spitting the word out like a swear. She flashes the picture on the front again with a white knuckled grip.

“I-I don’t,” she can’t tell the extent of Roxy’s true upheaval, no way to tell where emotion ends and exaggerated action begins. “I’m sorry?”

Roxy continues ranting, unaware of her concern. “I cannot believe she would give this to me!” She flings the offending pack back into the basket. 

Calliope picks up the dejected thing, flipping through the little notes taped to it; proper water and sunlight exposure, growing tips, recipe for seed roasting and a pie – who knew you could put vegetables in a pie! – but nothing else to indicate its apparently grotesque nature.

“Roxy,” Callie interjects, and only then does her spiel come to an end. “I really do not understand why you are so upset about this?”

Roxy folds her arms tightly over her chest, huffing out a exasperated breath; a curl hanging between her eyes bouncing with the breeze of it. Her pout slides off her face, one corner of her lips curling up into a soft grin. Her eyes soften, shining with hints of an almost sad nostalgia.

“I freakin’ swear,” Roxy sighs through laughter, shaking her head with raised brows, as if about to chastise a rowdy, malevolent child. “I thought I would loathe the thought of alcohol in my system more than anything, but that lil’ pumpkin drawing is coming up close second to most-loathed consumption item.”

“Oh my goodness!” Calliope gasps. “I had no idea that these punkimp things were addictive substances, we should talk to Jade about being more cautious with her choice of produce-“

“No, no darling,” Roxy’s laughter interrupts. “First of all, it’s pump-kin,” she says, enunciating each letter with hilarious exaggeration; she cups Callie’s chin in her palm, the two of them giggling as she works it up and down with each syllable until they roll off her tongue without a single slip. The irony of Roxy lecturing her on the intricacies of language is not lost on the two of them.

“Second of all,” she continues, the dregs of disbelief lacing her voice again with an ironic menace, “while these orange shits don’t have any drunking effects on you, they don’t have any taste either. Especially when they’re the only thing you can get your hands on to feed you and an entire city for a good chunk of your life.

“Which is why this packet is going into the garden trash pile!” she cheers, getting up and taking the basket with her. “ S’nice of Jade to help with the compost, though.” 

“But,” Callie says, “it is not like this is the only thing you have now.”

“Which is why I have the gratuitous liberty to throw all of these pumpkin seeds away and never have to see those plump, ass-shaped orange things again. We got ourselves choice here.” Roxy retorts with a smile. “We live in a whole new world, one we created ourselves. I’m free to make my paradise planet as orange-ass-shaped-vegetable free as I damn well please. 

“And we also don’t need any cranky carapaces comin’ for our garden with torches and pitchforks next time we dish out the goods. They probably hate the stuff more than I do, n’ we wouldn’t want all our work flushed down the tubes by a mob of friendly insect peeps.”

“I see what you mean,” Calliope giggles. She drags her claws through the dirt, and a layer of her peachy nail polish chips off the edge of her nail. Shame, Roxy worked really hard on that; but she’ll just have more fun painting them over and over again, Calliope’s nimble, bony fingers always finding their home in her pink, tender hands. “That is quite upsetting though, it being butt-shaped. I’ve never known you to ever be turned off, um, by what you’d call a ‘choice booty,’ I’m guessing?”

Roxy snorts at that, a hand around her abdomen as she curls around herself in laughter. Such soft, tinkling music, always raising lime blushes under skin.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Callie!” she exclaims riotously as she starts towards their home, its shiny tin roof peeking over the tops of the wooden stakes overtaken by crawling vines. “You know the only booty I need is yours.”

“Roxy!” Her smirk grows at the indignant, scandalous call of her name, a canine flashing behind the split of her lips, mischief the pink fire of her iris. “How wicked of you to say!”

“Like you think any differently of mine,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at her. She starts towards the house again, shooting a glance over her shoulder as she juts out her hip like a taunt. The basket bounces against it, threatening to spill.

It’s enough to make Calliope bury her face into her hands; the smell of dirt on her palms helps soothe her racing heart. “Roxy,” she whines, “you cannot just leave someone so suddenly after saying something like that.”

“I won’t be,” she says. Her voice grows distant, cheerful, yet weighted with the tired satisfaction of the completion of the evening’s tasks. “You’re just gonna follow this booty in anyway!”

She’s right. Even if it weren’t for the apparent mutual glory of both their affection – there is no way she will indulge in longing for booty just yet; the slang still makes her feel a touch vulgar – the sun is beginning to dip over the horizon, signaling the end of the day’s work. She’s been conditioned to the sight of sundown, it triggering her growing anticipation of cozy nights of blankets and shared tea and hopefully a full, restful night with another very lovely person by her side. It has become a comfort to expect what comes next, to know a routine so unsettlingly new, but still fitting each new day like a glove. It’s a blanket of calm over every waking hour, muffling the anxiety that once thrummed through every bone at the thought of sleep or the heartache of dying worlds and instinctual violence and the disaster of games spanning the fates of universes. The pain is over, this universe bringing no more than reward, so deservingly won. Her gratitude for it is never foreign, unlike the ache of her cheeks now; she thought she had already grown accustomed to smiling for so long by now. 

“Well, you better get ready,” Calliope calls back. With a sigh and a crack from her joints, she hoists herself up, basking against the glow of the sun as it disappears behind the green edges of the horizon before bolting to the end of the row and leaping from the garden. She gets wonderful, shrieking laughter in response, joy ringing through the fresh air and leaves and against her ear as her arms envelope Roxy’s waist from behind. “Because here I come!”

**Author's Note:**

> This ship has consumed me.
> 
> First Homestuck fic can I get a hell yeah.


End file.
